


cmd.exe

by 9th lvl meme (insanityrenaissance), insanityrenaissance



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Multi, One Shot Collection, Platonic Relationships, Reader-Insert, Supernatural Elements, gender neutral reader, implied animal death, my 'no beta' tag is now extra funny, no beta we die like cliffjumper, y'know ill add tags as i write the thing ya feel?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanityrenaissance/pseuds/9th%20lvl%20meme, https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanityrenaissance/pseuds/insanityrenaissance
Summary: primus came to me in a dream, said "cringe culture is dead, write a million reader-insert tf fics," handed me a curly straw and left. feel free to send in requests.
Relationships: Reader & Knock Out, Reader/Knock Out
Comments: 23
Kudos: 144





	1. manifold love (i.)

**Author's Note:**

> hnngh.... transformers. i love them. these are just little things i like to write to kill the time, and fic concepts that perhaps aren't worth their own dedicated fic for. feel free to request or suggest stuff to me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock-Out contemplates boundaries and the lack thereof, and deals with the horrors wrought by humanity. Set in the Aligned continuity during _Transformers: Prime_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a tfp au where reader is a street racer who can manage to keep up with knock-out, and k.o. sometimes slums it in their garage when he gets bored of work. the whole concept is just a giant initial d joke honestly, don't read too hard into the title it's name of an [eurobeat song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuKySGmuksI). this can be read as platonic or romantic, honestly. i'm running a fever so i have no idea if this is coherent, good luck.

Knock Out isn’t a particularly huge fan of how touchy humans are. Their tendency for it makes sense when one thinks about it logically; humans lack an EM field, and with their limited perception are stuck with primitive and blunt methods of communication. Namely body language, physical contact. But logic is Shockwave’s shtick, so Knock Out just thinks it’s weird and more than a bit gross. They’re not even just touchy with each other, they’re touchy with _everything!_ Always running their hands along things (like his alt mode), thoughtlessly leaving behind nasty oils and other secretions. Even exchanging them sometimes. It’s disgusting, to be honest. And you’re no exception to this, constantly reaching out and putting your hands on him, rapping your knuckles against his frame to get his attention, leaning on him, sitting way closer to him than any member of his own species would’ve felt the need to. He’s debated telling you off about it, even came close to it a few times, but though your greasy little hands may smudge his finish, you’ve waxed and buffed and oiled him to perfection enough times where he’ll tolerate it. 

So when you start doing things like slapping his pede to get his attention, Knock-Out doesn’t crush your offending appendage or liquefy you entirely, instead arching an optical ridge and propping his head further up from his reclining position as he watches television in your garage. He doesn't like it, but the things he likes about Earth is a very short list to begin with, so that's not really all that surprising. ( _what is surprising, though, is that the list seems to keep having new things added onto it. he's choosing to blame you for this._ ) 

“What is it.” He has yet to look away from the movie onscreen, but that doesn't seem to dissuade you.

“What's the worst car to have as an alt mode?”

“Worst?” He echoes the question with a curiously lit to his voice, leaning up from his reclining position to give you his full attention.

“Y’know, the _ugliest_. I think any performance issues with a model would be compensated with your advanced physiology...” You trail off and Knock Out watches you carefully, vaguely curious as to what prompted the question in the first place. “So at that point it’s just a matter of aesthetics, right? So, what would you not be caught dead in?” 

“Please,” He huffs, sitting up fully now so he can look down on your properly. "While our physiology may appear to have some general similarities, we're vastly different species. You can't even perceive the range of visual information we process." Oh, sounds like a rant is incoming. If there's one thing guaranteed to get him worked up, it's looks. His vanity is one of his more blatant character traits, and while you think it’s hilarious, you would also say it’s not entirely undeserved. But to be fair, you’ve always had a weakness for pretty things, cars especially. It's probably why you continue to let Knock Out barge in to your garage and treat your place like a hotel, and do things like roll his eyes and talk down to you. “As if you could even apply a framework of Cybertronian aesthetics to Earth’s vehicle designs and expect–”

“–Pontiac Aztek.” 

“Ugh.” His disgust is visible and you cackle. Perhaps this is also why you let him stick around; while he can physically crush you in an instant, verbally you tend to have the upper hand. Resting your hands on the plates of his leg you lean forward, faux-innocence putting a mocking edge to your smile. 

“Fiat Multipla?”

“Sweet Primus.” 

“....Reliant Robin?”

“ _No_.” 

“Think about it!” You look absolutely delighted at the garbage suggestions you’re throwing his way, which is not entirely surprising. The last time you had looked at him like this, he ended up being shown what seemed to be an endless scroll of what you gleefully called ‘shitty car mods,’ and those images will haunt his memory banks for the next twenty vorns. For someone who claims to appreciate vehicles as much as he does, you sure do enjoy the worst humanity has to offer in terms of motorized transportation. “I’m sure that some of your kind have only three wheels, their options are limited!”

“I _am_ thinking about it,” Knock Out says with a strangled note in his voice. “And I _hate_ it. No self-respecting Cybertronian would ever take that as an alt mode, even if they were a three-wheeler.”

“Not even an Autobot?”

“I said _self-respecting_ ,” He huffs, “Most Autobots don’t have any self-respect, much less _taste_. They’re all that geometric shape you use as an insult.”

“Squares?”

“Yes, they’re all squares.” He pauses, thinking about Arcee. Is it possible for squares to also be terrifying? Because she kind of is. Nowhere near as terrifying as any of the mechs he answers to, but still. Yikes.

“What else would they use though, if they had three wheels?” You climb over his legs, but rather than sit down you proceed to wander about the garage, pulling out a blanket from one of the shelves and bring it over. It's one of the softer ones, fortunately, so Knock Out will tolerate you draping his legs with it when you sit down. “Those three-wheel motorcycles? They look ridiculous.” Then, to Knock Out's surprise, you drape the cloth over a large box. And then proceed to sit on it, still laughing at your own stupid ideas. “Oh, I know! A motorcycle with a _sideca–_ ”

"What are you doing?" He interrupts, red optics narrowed into a glare that shifts from you to the box beneath you.

"Uh." The non-sequitur has thrown you off and you blink a few times, unsure of what he's talking about. "I'm... sitting down?" 

“You sit here.” He points to your usual spot; right on his legs, which he’s already shifted so that one is slightly in front of the other, knee joint of the lower one bent slightly to support the higher leg and give you a spot to sit. That in itself is startling; Knock Out hadn’t even moved consciously, a few subroutines of programming that he even didn’t realize he _had_ kicking in, and his frame had just accepted the commands without question to make a spot for you. This conscious acknowledgement of it is new, and Knock Out finds himself grateful that you can’t feel EM fields because the mortification that flares through it is unmistakable. Some of it must show on his face, though, because your eyebrows shoot up and he's scrambling to explain in a way that doesn't sound soft. "I'm only saying, you've made a habit of throwing yourself at me that I expect it at this point."

"I guess I do." Apparently his words aren't enough to throw you off, because when you rise from the box you're fighting off a smile. "Never really thought about it." 

"It's not worth nothing."

"Apparently it is, K.O." This isn't your full 'shit-eating' grin; he would know, he's built up a catalog of your different smiles and facial expressions, if only to figure out what you mean and when. Which is vital he insists, because though your intent is to mock, he can pick up the slight flush hitting your cheeks and the crinkling around the eyes that means you're genuinely pleased. "Aw, are we _fwiends,_ Knock Out?" Primus, you’re doing that voice again, the one he _hates_. He shouldn'tve said anything. "Did you want to _cuddwe_?"

"I tolerate you, meatbag." He jabs at your stomach with a digit of his servo, enjoying the yelp it elicits as you try in vain to push it away. "And that's on a good day."

“ _You_ tolerate _me_?” You cross your arms and curl in on yourself to shield your stomach from further prodding as you close in on him. “It’s the other way around, dude. You’re the one always showing up at _my_ place, using up _my_ shit, wasting time on _my_ T.V. Don’t see me trying to get onto the _Nemesis_ , do you?”

He splutters. "Ungrateful fleshy,” Very quickly he gestures to himself with a flourish. “You should be honored to get to see a work of art such as myself as often as you do.”

“Oh trust me, I’m thrilled.” There’s something that sounds suspiciously like laughter in your tone, but you’ve settled into your usual seat on his legs, blanket wrapped around you like a cocoon. He can hear a soft exhale as you lean back, watches the slight twitch of your lips up, and a part of him is satisfied. 

Of course, the rest of him is scrambling to figure out when exactly you managed to impact his subroutines to this level, but he can sort that out when the movie’s over. 

“I hope you’re stuck with a PT Cruiser as your next alt mode.”

“You take that back _right now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> knock-out: *limps back into the reader's garage after a fight with team prime*  
> reader: the squares kicked your ass, didn't they?  
> knock-out: shut up and help me buff this out
> 
> i know 0 things about cars aside from whether or not they're ugly, sorry. anyway i think the reliant robin is adorable and i love it.


	2. star trekkin' (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rodimus Prime takes his (co-)captain duties seriously and attempts to raise the morale of a unique member of the _Lost Light_ 's crew. Technically, he succeeds. Set in IDW's G1 continuity, during the events of _LL/MTMTE_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a warning: this isn't vegetarian, much less vegan. it is, however, gluten-free.
> 
> i haven't actually read any mtmte/ll comics yet aside from snippets. i have no idea what i'm doing, this is just a few jokes strung together. the lost light is just cybertronian star trek, right? right??

_Someone's saying your name._

Whoever is saying it, they're repeating it enough that it's sort of become this droning whine of rising and falling tones. Kind of a pain in the ass, but it succeeds in pulling you out of your reading, and you blink rapidly as your vision refocuses on the eager face of one Rodimus Prime. He looms over you, hands on his hips, and while the sight of him dwarfing you used to make you nervous, now you just stare into those bright optics and get annoyed.

"...what is it?" You're suspicious in the face of his enthusiasm, but nevertheless give him your attention, tucking your stylus behind your ear.

“I got you something!” It’s sometimes easy to forget that Rodimus Prime was once a soldier in a war that lasted longer than the collective history of your species. Though the Autobot-Decepticon War is over(?) for most, the eons of conflict weigh heavily on every member of the Lost Light crew, regardless of their previous allegiance. (The exception to this being Tailgate, for obvious reasons.) You can see it, more than they think you can, and while Rodimus is not a true exception to that, his levity sometimes makes it difficult to take him and his position seriously. "You gotta come see it." 

“Yeah sure, gimme a sec.” You display your own eagerness to get up by further curling up in your chair, idly scrolling towards the bottom of the page on the datapad you’re reading. “Almost done.” 

“That was an order from your captain!” Rodimus reaches out and grabs you, chair and all, and you screech as you feel yourself being hoisted into the air. Casually draping your arms across your seat has turned into holding on for dear life, but the Prime either doesn’t notice or deliberately ignores your distress as he carries you out of the room. Given the noise you’re making, it’s likely the latter.

“You’re not my captain!” Childlike enthusiasm? Make that annoying teenager enthusiasm, and you wish he was flesh and blood so you could smack the shit out of him. You pass by a mech who you think is Chromedome (it’s a little hard to tell when you’re trying not to bounce out of your seat) and offer a wave to the passing blur before reaching out and gripping Rodimus’ servos tightly. “It’s Tuesday, which means _Megatron_ is my captain.”

“There are no Tuesdays in space.” 

“There are for me,” Comes your reply with a hiss of panic as he increases his speed. “The fragile meatbag needs a sense of routine and progression for their mental health, remember?”

“This _is_ for your mental health," Rodimus insists, rounding another corner within the bowels of the ship. You have no idea where he's taking you, as you've been preoccupied with the whole kidnapping thing to really pay attention to your surroundings, but you hope to Primus that whatever nonsense he has for you is actually worth all this fuss.

Knowing him, it probably won't be, but Rung's been encouraging you to be more positive. Might as well give it a shot.

A door slides open and you breath a sigh of relief as the familiar sight of Swerve's reveals itself before you. While this ship may be a decent size for most of its crew, for your comparatively small human body it's absolutely massive and you've given up on ever fully learning the layout. If he had taken you somewhere you were unfamiliar with, it would've been difficult to retreat back to your quarters without help. 

There's a small crowd gathered by one of the tables, hovering and chatting in a rapid-fire mess of Cybertronian that lags your translator. Swerve is actually there at the table rather than behind the bar or flitting around his patrons, which is not a good sign, and you can make out the distinct shoulders of Ultra Magnus in the mess, which is a worse sign. 

"Roddy," You're already nervous. "What did you do?"

"A favor," He insists. "You'll be _thanking_ me for my generosity."

Doubtful, but he's still carrying you, so you'll keep your mouth shut for now.

The crowd parts as the two of you approach, revealing a very unhappy Ultra Magnus (currently in the middle of lecturing the crowd) and what seemed to be, and you were going out on a limb here, some kind of _alien_ on the table. Which is, first and foremost, _fantastic_ , because even though you're on a spaceship exploring the cosmos doesn't mean you don't still get excited about meeting new life and new civilizations. Unfortunately though, you've been on this ship long enough where you know this is about to become a giant mess, and you can feel the steady oncoming creep of a headache.

"-it's are irrevelant. We do not have the space nor resources to adequately accommodate this organism," Ultra Magnus is saying, imperious and unflinching as always. He turns to Rodimus, and by extension to you, with a glower. "Rodimus, this creature will die if it remains onboard."

"No it won't!" Rodimus holds you up like an offering, or perhaps a shield against Mangus' heavy disappointment. "They'll be able to take care of it!"

"They will?" Ultra Magnus asks, suspicious.

"I will?" You ask at the same time, and the giant mech drops his gaze to you the frown deepens. (Ultra Magnus has a wide collection of frowns and grimaces with a myriad of different meanings. For example, you were reasonably sure this was Frown of Contemplation #14, and he was trying to figure out whether he should be relieved or concerned that you seemingly had nothing to do with this.) 

As for what was the cause of such a stir, you weren't sure how to describe it. To be more accurate, you would describe it as indescribable. Trying to fit your human frame of reference onto the mysteries and horrors of the cosmos was always an ordeal, and half the time the connections you made were actually wrong, but you kept doing it because you couldn't help it. This creature is nothing like anything you've seen on earth aside from the fact it's (seemingly) bipedal and has a head with a beak-like mouth? Was that a mouth? Were you looking at its head? It looks like... like....

“Kinda looks like a chicken." If chickens were something that only vaguely like chickens. 

“It _is_ a chicken.” Rodimus looks rather proud of himself. You, however, are less than enthused.

“Chickens don’t have _eyestalks_ , Roddy. Or compound eyes.” If those even are eyes. Who knows. 

“Well _obviously,_ I had to improvise.” He adopts that lit that he gets when he thinks he’s being clever and is embracing his status as Prime to put on airs. He is insurmountably older than you and has witnessed such terrible and wonderful sights beyond your comprehension. He is also, apparently, less mature than most thirteen-year-olds these days. "It's not as if there are actual chickens from Earth all the way out here." 

Alright then. "Rodimus," You say, all sweet and considerate and one step away from losing your goddamn mind. "Why, exactly, did you get me a pseudo-space chicken?"

"You've talked about them before." 

Yeah, like _once,_ maybe a few weeks ago, when you had been particularly homesick and had taken to moping your way through your duties. Rodimus, Drift, and a few other mechs had taken to asking you about your adolescence on Earth and you had told them about your parent's farm and all the animals on it. It hadn't fixed your mood entirely, but it had been nice to talk so simply of the past, without feeling like your life and your memories were insignificant compared to the eons your friends had experienced, and- _oh_. Rodimus got you this weird-looking (and _smelling_ ) thing to cheer you up, didn't he?

That's... kind of sweet.

A lot of your interactions with Rodimus, and by extension the entire crew, ends up going like this. Little near-misses that, even in their failure, cannot dampen the sentiment that goes into them. It's awkward for all parties involved for every approach to be a misstep in some fashion, but you've all grown used to how the edges of your affection never seem to fit quite right together. It's the thought that counts, ultimately, so despite the fact that you look at this thing and see only the most passing resemblance to the chickens you grew up around, you can't help but smile at it all the same.

“Chicken.” Ultra Magnus repeats the name like it's a new piece of slang. (He _hates_ slang.)

“Uh. Earth animal.” You pause, thinking of a good analogy as you look at the bizarre alien animal. (Can you even call it an animal?) “Like, a Laserbeak or Buzzsaw looking thing? But like, stubby, fluffy, and unable to fly.”

“You humans think they're cute, right?” Someone asks behind you.

“Yeah, we do.” You stare at the creature longer. Chickens are cute, you think. They are also really tasty.

All heads turn to you.

“Oh.” You flatten your lips into a line. “That was out loud, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Ultra Magnus says like he already knows where this is going and he does not like it one bit. He sounds like that a lot. (We're at Frown of Disapproval #21, shifting into Frown of Resignation #2) 

Most of the crew present turns to look at you. They don’t need to, as their senses exceed yours and you’ve probably had their full attention for a bit at this point, but they’ve picked up on the human importance of eye contact and are currently applying that knowledge to inform you of just how hard they’re judging you. The little things they do for your sake are usually endearing, but right now it's just kind of annoying.

“Gross.” Skids is leaning over the table to look between you and the creature. “That’s _gross_. Do you wanna _eat_ that thing?”

“No.” Yes, you do. The last piece of fresh food you had was two weeks ago, some fruit with yellow hair on it like a coconut that Brainstorm insisted was completely edible and in fact, a good source of vitamin B12. You had refused to touch it until you confirmed with Perceptor and Ratchet that you weren’t going to die horribly after consuming it. Both of them had okayed it, and while you were pretty sure neither of them were emotionally invested in your well-being, they’re both professionals. Like, real professionals who take their word seriously, not Brainstorm who when he says you’ll be fine actually means there’s an eighty percent chance you’ll die. 

So you ate it.

The fruit had almost screamed when you took a bite out of it, vibrated and writhed in a way that resonated with your bones and made you feel like you were eating someone alive. It tasted vaguely of spicy, prawny peanut butter, and the general consistency of the thing was mealy, with little fibrous strands that you were pulling out of your teeth for days. You still ate the entire thing.

So yeah, maybe you were desperate for some freshly cooked food and no longer cared that much about what it came from. Or of it had like, fucking _eyestalks_. You were never that much of a picky eater to begin with, no sense in stopping now.

You say nothing, looking over the creature with a keen interest, reaching out with the stylus and lightly poking at one of it's wing-like appendages. It makes a strange chittering sound in response and idly nips at you, but otherwise remains docile, if vacant. It's awfully calm about being on a starship surrounded by a bunch of mechs, but if it's a domesticated animal like a chicken is, it might just be used to being manhandled for space travel.

"And you're _sure_ it's not sentient?" You ask finally, because you're now committed to the idea.

"Primus help us." 

“You said that you grew up with chickens,” Rodimus says rather helplessly instead of answering the question, optics shifting from you to the creature. He clearly hadn’t anticipated this turn of events at _all_ , metal features contorting into something halfway between surprise, disappointment, and horror. “I thought humans didn’t eat their pets.”

“Both of those things are true." In hindsight, you really shouldn't have glossed over all the dirtier details of what it was like to grow up on an actual farm. It would've nipped this whole thing in the bud. "However, you're missing a small but important detail: the chickens I had as a kid were not pets, they were _livestock._ "

"You said you missed them." You've never seen him get upset like this. It's kind of funny, in a sweet way.

"I missed fresh eggs in the morning and _coq au vin_." Even thinking about it now, you can't help but sigh wistfully. Someone makes a mechanical noise of disgust and you steadfastly ignore it; the concept of regularly consuming the biomass of other organisms to stay alive disgusted the entire crew out to varying degrees, ranging from morbid fascination to absolute revulsion, and you were used to it by now. Just another thing on the long list of 'Things Organics Do That Freak Out Cybertronians'

“It's supposed to be a friend to make you feel better.” Is he going through the five stages of grief or something? Rodimus' face is doing some very interesting things. 

“It _will_ make me feel better,” You reassure him, and it’s not even a lie because holy shit you’ve missed meat. “Just.. not in the way you intended. Besides, you heard Ultra Magnus. This really isn't an environment suitable for a creature like this.”

Ultra Magnus shoots you a Look for bringing him into this argument, but doesn't actually say anything yet, which is a testament to just how much he doesn't want this creature onboard. You smile cheerily, and he grimaces. 

“You don’t even know if it’s poisonous.”

“We can run tests.” Oh, you were determined now. "Brainstorm will help, he loves weird shit and he still owes me for the Noodle Incident."

A collective shudder falls over the crowd as everyone quiets. The Noodle Incident was technically never to be mentioned, referenced, or alluded to, but a debt was a debt goddamn it. 

“Can I help?” Oh god, _Whirl_. He's the only one unaffected by the memories of the incident, now hovering over you and your possible dinner and almost vibrating with excitement.

“ _No_.” You and everyone else says at once. ”Last thing I need is you shredding my dinner with your unhinged enthusiasm.”

Whirl pauses, considering it, single optic still fixed on you. “... can I _watch_?”

You make no effort to hide your distaste, grimacing at him. "I mean, I guess?" You can't come up with a real reason to say no aside from 'you weird me out,' which isn't really enough of a justification. If it were, then pretty much everyone on the ship would've used it as an excuse not to deal with your human nonsense a long time ago. That being said, why is he always Like That. Seriously. You felt more comfortable around Megatron sometimes (read: a lot of the time) and he was fucking _Megatron_. You sigh, shaking your head with resignation. "Just don't mess with it, okay?"

If he had a mouth, Whirl would be grinning. You can feel it. But if he plays nice it's not really going to be a problem, so you're not going to worry about it. Taking your hands off your hips, you clap them together and force yourself into a more upbeat mood. 

"Look's like meat's back on the menu, boys!"

Everyone groans, except Ultra Magnus, who puts his head in his hands.

( _Lord of the Rings_ was last movie night, but it seems no one appreciates your sense of humor. Weenies.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened exclusively to the soundtrack to it's always sunny in philadelphia while writing this and it shows.
> 
> sorry it's not more knock-out, but it does follow the same thread of 'small human vaguely bullies giant alien robots' so it's cool. anyway, the reader introduces the lost light crew to human pop culture for the sole purpose of giving context to all the terrible jokes they make. it's awful.


	3. ghost riders (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're used to seeing dead people. Dead robots, not so much. Set in _Transformers: Prime_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i need to update my ygo fic  
> my post-concussed brain: write this instead

As far as being dead goes, giant robots seem to take it pretty well.

Like, surprisingly well. Better than you're taking 'giant robots exist, and can also die.'

You tell him as much. "You're pretty relaxed for a dead guy," You say as the pair of you idly make your way down the street. In the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Nevada, small desert towns that consist of three houses and a gas station all look the same and are all filled with the same types of people. New faces stick out, especially new faces talking to thin air, so you hold the mic of your earbuds close to your mouth to fake a phone call. It's a move you've pulled enough times where it should be easy, but most of the time you do not have a large, semi-transparent hulk of apparently once-living metal following you as you try to pretend you're a normal person just staying in town for a few normal days to do some normal shopping

It is really, really hard not to stare.

"I'm just happy someone can see me, you know?" The giant (dead) robot that you have known for a total of fifteen minutes follows you at a steady pace, only needing to take a single step for ever few of yours. There's a jittery edge to him, a maniac kind of energy that you're pretty sure is nervous delight. "I've been going a mite bit crazy being stuck here on my lonesome," He admits, shooting you a glance and smiling- actually smiling! "I could say the same for you, thought. Never thought one of you humans would be so casual 'bout seein' the dead. Though you did scream."

“Phah. I’ve been seeing ghosts since I was little.” For as long as you can remember, actually, and after constant exposure even the terrifying becomes mundane. "The scream was more about the fact you're... well..." You vaguely gesture to all of him with one hand, because you don't currently have the strength to articulate the whole 'large mechanical humanoid' thing. 

“...an alien, you mean?” 

That actually stops you in your tracks. You look up from your phone at the giant robot that’s been following you, running your gaze over the contours of his chassis, and although his words make sense, make the most sense in fact, you’re having trouble connecting that final dot. It's like there's this once final synapse in your head that needs to fire for the concept to solidify into a truth, and it's just refusing to go off even though all the numbers are adding up.

“Alien.”

“Alien.” He repeats, human-like features twisting into a smirk. He spreads his arms wide to present himself in all his chrome glory. "The name's Cliffjumper."

 _Alien_.

"Huh." You say, eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

. . . 

So.

Fainting.

You can't have been out for that long, because whoever is by your side is still freaking out about having to call 9-1-1 rather than actually freaking out to a 9-1-1 operator, and while you feel like you're baking under the Nevada sun, it's not quite warm enough where heat stroke is a concern. Your body responds in stages, your senses dulled and unfocused as you try to pull yourself out of the swamp that is unconsciousness. It's a difficult task, one that isn't made easier by the loud panicking of someone about to make things worse by calling the local hospital.

"No ambulance." You say in what you hope is a clear, loud tone, but is probably a barely coherent mumble. "Oh my god, please be quiet."

A voice, young and masculine, hisses in protest. "You _collapsed_ on the _street_. You need to go to the hospital." 

"Dude." You reach out in the haze of your blurred vision, grasping wildly until you fingers wrap tightly around a wrist and you can shut your eyes again. Blessed darkness. "If you call an ambulance, you're gonna be the one needing it."

"Um."

That shuts him up, which is great because your head still _hurts_. You let go of your attempted savior as you crack one eye open. With your vision still swimming it takes a moment for you to gain your bearings and pull yourself upright, but you manage it with only minimal assistance. 

"Oh wow. Uh." You blink again, taking a good look at the first responder to your non-medical non-emergency. "Didn't realize you were a kid- Shit, sorry. You were just trying to be helpful."

"I'm not a _kid_." The boy, who is clearly a kid, stresses the word like you've deeply insulted him. "I'm _sixteen_."

There's a lot you could say about how that still makes him a kid, but you did just threaten to assault him. So instead, you just nod while looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"My mom's a nurse." The not-kid-but-teenager informs you, nervous again now that his irritation has faded. "If you don't want to go to the hospital."

It's very considerate of him, more considerate then you were expecting. You still cringe at the idea, though.

"Oh no it's fine, I'm just anemic." Which is not a complete lie, technically, but you still wince as you say it. "I just need to stay down for a bit."

The kid looks unsure, but the look you give him seems to mollify him enough where he's no longer reaching for the phone. For a moment the two of you just sit there in awkward silence, the kid still trying to give you a once-over to determine if you did in fact need medical attention, but trying and failing to be subtle about it. You watch him through narrowed eyes, but it's hard to hold the 'bitch try me' face when you're still feeling light-headed. Seems to be the longer you sit here, the more convinced he'll be that you need help.

You sigh. "Look, if it's not too much trouble..." Blearily you rummage around in your jacket and pull out your wallet, offering him some cash. "Could you go get me something cold to drink? Like juice? Or ginger ale? I'm kind of queasy so I won't hold water down." 

The kid stares at the money in your hand for a moment. Then the panic fades from his face and his features shift into something more determined, or at least trying to be. He takes the offered five dollar bill and points down the street.

"There's a store only a few blocks down," He tells you, rising to his feet. His expression wavers slightly as he turns to leave. "Just, stay down, okay? I'll be right back."

The boy breaks off into a run down the street and you watch him go. Only when you're sure he's out of earshot do you relax, burying your head in your hands with a wheeze.

"Wow." Cliffjumper, a giant dead _alien_ robot, has apparently been watching the whole spectacle unfold. "You handled that really well."

"Don't even start." You raise a finger to silence him. "This is _your_ fault."

"It was a compliment!" He'd be more believable if he kept that edge of laughter out of his voice. Apparently aliens are real, and they're insufferable. "I woulda thought you'd faint straight after seein' me."

"Sorry, it took me a bit to work through my existential crisis." Leaning against the wall of the building you had collapsed by, you put your head between your legs. The sensation of the hot desert sun beating down on the nape of neck is only a mild improvement than the sensation of the sun on your forehead, but you'll take what you can get.

"You sure you don't need a hospital?" He narrows his glowing eyes down at you. "I ain't no medic, but you took kind of a hard fall for a human."

 _For a human._ You're mildly offended by those words, even if you understand the logic behind them. "I've had a concussion before, I know what it feels like." You had already started moving through the mental checklist to make sure everything was working. You were woozy, yes, but it was already starting to fade, and you no longer had any difficulties focusing. "This is just pain. Besides, I can't afford a hospital visit right now." The look of doubt on his face doesn't shift and you scowl in response. "I'm fine! I'm not even nauseous, I just wanted to give that kid something to do so he could feel like he helped. Easier than trying to convince him I'll be fine on my own."

"Mhm." The doubt does not recede, but you're stubborn. And it's not like he can pick you up and take you himself. He seems to realize it as well, moving the topic along. "What're you doing out here, anyways? I've scouted this area 'nough times to know you ain't a local."

"What, a young adult can't go on a road trip across the American countryside?" Leaning against the wall you have to crane your neck and squint through the sun to get a look at him. You only give staring him down a few moments before you're back to looking at the ground, continuing rather casually. "Open skies, new places, new people. What's not to love?"

"Is it really that simple?"

"I'll tell you what it is." You press a spot on your elbow that is sure to be a bruise, wincing at the pain. "It's nunya."

"Nunya?"

"Nunya _business_." Glancing up, you can make the approaching silhouette of your teenage savior, and wave your hand dismissively through Cliffjumper's translucent shin. "Now shut up, I need to look sane." 

The robo-ghost looks like he has a few things he'd like to say, but he's polite enough to keep quiet as Mr. Sixteen Going On Seventeen jogs up to you with what look likes a bottle of some kind of juice. He must not run often considering how heavy his breathing is, which makes you feel kinda bad about asking him to go in the first place. You keep your mouth shut though, taking the bottle as he offers it. "Here you go." 

You give him a once over before smiling. "You didn't have to run, you know. I wasn't going anywhere."

"I know! I just." His mouth opens and closes several times, unable to speak. His face flushes with embarrassment at his lack of conversation skills, but getting flustered only seems to worsen his inability to form a coherent sentence. "I'm- Y'know-"

Watching him stumble over his words is objectively hilarious, but it hasn't been so long since you were his age that you've really forgotten how much it sucked. Deciding to spare him further awkwardness, you rise to your feet and offer your hand. "Don't worry about it. And thanks, I appreciate the assistance."

"Um." He verbally stumbles, uncomfortable with the genuine gratitude you're giving him, but he only hesitates a moment before he takes your hand and shakes it. "You uh. Gonna be okay?" 

"Yeah, I'll be fine." And you're not even lying. How about that?

It takes a little nudging and some reassurances that you can call for help if needed, but you finally get the boy back on his way. You give a little wave as he goes back to whatever teenagers do in the middle of nowhere. He disappears around the corner only to re-emerge shortly afterwards on a bike that looks way too cool for someone his age to have, coming to stop at the intersection to briefly glance for non-existence traffic. 

"Hey!" He pauses on his bike, looking back at you. "Sweet ride, kid!"

"Not a kid!" He shouts back, but it sounds like he's smiling. You laugh, waving more enthusiastically this time, and he rides off. 

"Well, that wasn't so bad." Almost absent-mindedly you turn to your giant companion. "For a moment there I really thought I was gonna have to- uh. You okay, big guy?"

The robot was frozen. It was a little strange; though he was hypothetically made of metal parts, at no point in your time with him had you thought of him being _rigid_. This was not a construct of pulleys and levels, a ramshackle of metal. He moved a limb and you thought of it as a limb, not a facsimile of one. But as he stands stock-still, watching the point where the boy rode off on his motorcycle, you are finally given the impression of a machine. 

He doesn't look good. He looks... well.

Haunted. 

"Alright, here we go!" With a sudden disregard for whoever may be listening, you raise your voice, clapping your hands together loudly and startling Cliffjumper from his daze. He whirls on you, shocked, but you ignore it and press on. "It's time to do the thing."

"Do what?"

"The thing where you tell me your life story, well, life and death story, and I do my best to help you move on so you're not haunting anymore small towns in the desert." 

He squints down at you. "Why?"

You pause. No one has actually asked you that before. Most of the dead you meet are too desperate to question your aid when you give it, or too far gone to comprehend that what you're doing is for their own good. The need to move on is too strong for them to resist a lifeline when it's thrown. And you, who have always curated your interactions with the deceased to be what they need to hear to best help them along, suddenly find yourself not knowing what to say. And not just because you don't know what he needs.

You don't know what you need, either.

"I'm the only one who can listen, aren't I?" You shrug a little helplessly. It might not be what he wants or needs to hear, but it's a close to a truth as you can manage. "I'm the only one who can help. So I do." 

That, judging by Cliffjumper's reaction, seems to be good enough.

. . .

Listening to a giant (dead) robot's tale of life, death, and loss takes up most of your evening.

Cliffjumper has to wait as you complete your tasks for the day. You had plans, after all, and in small towns like these there are few places that stay open late. He is incredibley polite about it, following you around and making idle smalltalk, waiting outside the town's small shopping center as you re-stock on supplies for the next leg of your trip. The whole turning into a car thing he does is weird, but considering how your day has been, you consider it par for the course and only check your rear-view mirror six or seven times to catch a glimpse of his phantom vechile form following you back to Jasper's only motel.

Unloading what you need from the car and heading to the motel is almost subconscious in just how used to it you are. For a moment you are so absorbed in the routine that you actually forget Cliffjumper is there. Not a long one, just barely long enough for you to grab a bag from the trunk of your car and startle yourself when you turned to see him watching you. Suddenly uncomfortable for a reason you cannot fathom, you glance between him and the door to the room you rented. "Just.. gimme a sec to get some things together? I won't be long."

"Take your time." He grins again, but it falls flat. "I have nowhere else to be."

You move as quickly as possible. 

It takes you a few minutes to gather some supplies for the night, and then the two of your head out into the desert, far away from prying eyes. Far enough where the fading lights of the town are only the most distant glow. Out here with nothing but lizards and bugs for company, with nothing but the stars to guide you. It was part of the reason you lingered in the desert. This austere natural beauty, the sheer _emptiness_ of it. 

"I should come back here with a telescope," You comment idly, setting up your little camp for the night while Cliffjumper watches. Perhaps it was the sun going down, or the looming weight of the knowledge he was about to share, but the robot looked dimmer, somehow. Like he no longer had the strength for false cheer and nonchalance.

That was fine, though. These things should have a somber mood.

There, under the stars, with a little campfire going and a drink in hand, you finally hear him out. It’s a long story of an even longer war, carnage and chaos stretched over the ages that consumed countless worlds including Cliffjumper’s own home. If you had heard it second-hand, perhaps it would be exciting. It has all the parts of some great epic, full of tragedy and triumph and tragedy again, on a scale that sounds impossible to believe. It _is_ impossible to believe at some parts, even for you, some poor schmuck who's been seeing the dead and everything in-between for their whole life, but you force yourself to accept it regardless. There's no fanfare or joy in his words, only an exhaustion that seeps into his frame as he unfolds the war piece-by-piece.

(You didn’t know a robot could look tired.) 

His death, like everything else about his time as soldier, is painful. Tortured then put out of his misery by a coward. And when he finishes you say nothing, lying on your back and looking up into the sky. Sprawled out on your little blanket, you stare up at the stars. They should feel different now that you know the black is not as empty and lifeless as it appears, but oddly enough, it feels the same as it did yesterday. 

"Either I'm a master at adjusting," You say finally, long after Cliffjumper's finished speaking, "Or I'm just numb to weird shit. I think it's the latter."

He makes that weird noise you think is supposed to be a laugh, and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence accompanied by the sounds of the desert and the crackling of your campfire. It's peaceful, surprisingly so considering how violently he met his end. 

“I _am_ sorry this happened to you, Cliffjumper.”

“You say that a lot?”

You laugh, poking at the fire with a stick. “Yes. But I always mean it when I do. I've seen a lot of death and it's aftermath, but. I dunno." You turn over to stare at the fire. "Dying alone and so far from home... that's its own kind of tragedy." 

He pauses, luminescent eyes trained on you as his expression goes carefully blank, shifting to an expression or lack thereof that you cannot hope to understand. It's at a time like this he feels inhuman, all facsimiles of the body language you know stripped away. If he were any other ghost this sort of look would be the preamble to something dark and violent, the last glimpse of humanity vanishing as instinct and rage took over, but Cliffjumper wasn't human to begin with. Perhaps, you muse as you stare back without flinching, this is what he acts like without the veneer of mimicry.

"You humans never stop surprisin' me." The veneer returns with a smile, one softer and less rueful. He holds it even as his gaze goes from you and up to the stars. "I don’t hate this planet. I hate that I died here, but that’s more ‘bout the dying bit.”

“Can’t fault you for that.” Still, it's one thing to look at the stars and imagine life among them. It's another thing entirely to look up and know which pinprick of light would lead you home, knowing you were never going to see it again.

Quietly you finish your dinner; a sad excuse of a sandwich you hadn't finished for lunch. in a way you were grateful your food was so bland and lifeless. You probably would've tasted anything anyway. The stress of the revelations that you've experienced today was beginning to set in, but your body has long since become accustomed to such things. Your hands barely shake as you toss more brush and sticks onto the fire. Maybe, when you get back to the hotel, you'll have a minor breakdown in your shower and space out instead of sleeping, but for now you would remain put-together. 

“Do you know what’s going to happen to me?” Cliffjumper asks suddenly, breaking your reverie and slow-building panic. “By all counts I should be one with the Allspark right now with the rest of my people.” 

You kind of want to scream. Just what, exactly, is your life becoming when some millennia-old alien robot ghost is asking you questions like that? “I don’t have a good answer for that.”

“Don’t need ‘good,’ just need somethin’. Gotta start somewhere.”

He’s right. This bit is something you know. Playing the role of some sort of psychopomp for the late bloomers. “A typical ghost rule is that if you’re here, it’s because something’s holding you back." You explain, the words well-rehearsed. "Regrets, fears, trauma... violent, intentional deaths are a common theme for most hauntings. But that's like... a human thing. Everything I know is a human thing, and you are definitely not human. So I have no idea if that even applies? ”

“Most people I knew were killed violently and intentionally,” Cliffjumper says, skeptical but focused. “I still don’t have any stories about contact from the dearly departed.”

"And ghosts are typically _bound_ to something. A place. An object. Even a person. You seem to just go where you please.” With a grumble you lie back down, crossing your arms. It's frustrating, to be so completely in the dark about the one thing you thought you _knew_. "I'm not claiming to be an expert here. I'm just saying what I know from experience."

"Isn't experience what makes someone an expert?"

"You're very nice." You open a single eye to glare at him. "It's kind of annoying."

Cliffjumper chuckles again, looking at you with a degree of fondness that's unrealistic considering how briefly you two have known each other. You remind him of someone; he may be alien, but he moves human most of the time, and you know what nostalgia looks and feels like on a person. It's not really you he's seeing right now, but you don't have the courage to ask him about it. He looks better than he had before, standing on the sidewalk as the world kept turning without him. Or telling you of the war that killed him and so many of his people. You don't want to cut short whatever brief moments of levity he has.

It's all he has left now, really.

With a sigh, you turn your attention back to the topic of hand. "Do you remember anything especially weird about your death? What it felt like to wake up afterwards?" You ask, turning and propping up your head up to get a good look at your new companion. Cliffjumper, in lieu of responding, shifts to that strange, not-blank expression again, and you choose to believe that means he's thinking about it. "Take as much time as you need." The desert nights were far from cold during the summer. It seemed like he had a lot to sort though, and you'd roughed it in worse conditions. 

Cliffjumper nods imperceptibly, gaze dropping to the ground as he sits and attempts to break down his current existence into something quantifiable. You didn't envy the task, but simply sitting and waiting for him to figure things out was hardly a thrilling experience. So in the interim, you busy yourself with other tasks; idly cleaning up the campsite, treating yourself to a dessert that consists of a sad candy bar you got from a rest stop three days ago and a clementine. Tracking the movements of the stars across the sky, running back into your car to get another blanket and a book. 

“Megatron.” Cliffjumper says suddenly, first quiet as if in question, then repeating the name with furious vitriol. You quickly dog-ear the current page of your book and shut it as he continues. "He and Starscream... they did something to me. To my body, after Starscream killed me."

Interest piqued, you prop yourself up on your elbows and pretend that you don't think those names are silly. "Something like what?"

"I don't know." Cliffjumper's brow furrows, his expression growing intense. The air seems to still with tension. "They... reanimated it, somehow. I wasn't in it anymore but I _felt_ it. I was in light, at peace. Then suddenly... this overwhelming kind've rage opened up beneath me. Deep, like a black hole. It... pulled me in. Woke me up. I don't know how else to put it."

"So... alien robot necromancy?"

"Necro- _what_."

"Necromancy! Reanimating and controlling the dead, y'know? You, dead?" You gesture lazily to his frame. "Your body, still moving because somebody told it to? We call that necromancy."

Something shifts. Maybe it's in his expression, maybe it's in the air around him, but when Cliffjumper rises to his feet there's an edge to him you haven't seen before. It's too grim to be hope, but perhaps this is what determination looks like on someone who's been at war for eons. It gives him color- literally, returning faint red to parts of his frame, buffing out the scratches and gashes and restoring him to what he was like before he died. 

"So you've heard of this before." 

You cringe. "I mean, yeah," you hastily continue before he can get the wrong idea, "But only second-hand! And most of my knowledge about that stuff comes from pop culture- this is one hundred percent out of my area of expertise, and that's even ignoring the whole alien side of things!" 

It's too late, probably.

“You said you were on a roadtrip, right?” His mouth spreads into a grin, and some weird lovechild of dread and resignation and excitement sits in your gut. “How 'bout spicing up your itinerary a little?”

This wasn't going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arcee, hearing the reader talking to thin air while jack's gone: humans are fuckin weird sometimes, smh
> 
> anyway i have a headache so idk if there are any incomplete sentences, if there are ill fix 'em in the morning. peace!

**Author's Note:**

> [yell at me for my crimes](https://9thlvlmeme.tumblr.com/)


End file.
